


The Spectre of Buckkeep

by BelovedFool, lesbaliens



Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb
Genre: (thank you regal), Angst, Child Abuse, Confrontation, Flowers, Fluff, Friendship, Gardens, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Nighttime, Obliviousness, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pain, Palm Reading, Rivalry, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedFool/pseuds/BelovedFool, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbaliens/pseuds/lesbaliens
Summary: A sense of foreboding leaves Fitz awake and wandering the Keep at night, but he is not the only one frequenting the empty halls.Please read and review!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to spaceefreak for Fitz's dialogue and to A_Fool_In_Love for the final kick in the pants to write this thing.

There were some nights when sleep simply could not reach me, and tonight was one of such. Chade had not summoned me for weeks and my King had not given me an assignment in even longer, but I still felt a disquiet that pervaded my consciousness so much that it drove me to wander. Even the kitchens did not hold their usual promise, for it was not food that I wanted. It was answers I sought, though I did not even know the questions. My steps were measured as I passed through the slices of moonlight that slipped in through the windows in the corridor, the regular sound creating a beat that wrapped up my thoughts. So enrapt was I that I scarcely noticed the pale figure glide down the hall at the upcoming intersection. It did not look at me, and seemed to make no sound at all, its hair floating behind it on an invisible breeze. I jumped, stifling a shout and taking a few steps back. At the chance that the figure had disappeared, I rushed forward again, although upon getting a proper look at it I recognized the figure’s pallor. “Fool?” I hissed, now approaching him. “What are you doing up at this time of night?”

     The Fool blinked as if to clear a glaze from his near-colourless eyes and gave me a vacant smile, although it seemed he had not noticed me prior. “The same thing you are,” he replied evasively, and then giggled. “Are you afraid of ghosts, FitzChivalry?”

     I had been concerned at his vacant tone, but now I folded my arms over my chest and frowned. “I am certainly not. I just didn’t expect to see anyone.”

     “I heard you shout," the Fool argued, "and you would not have done that had I been a guard or a servant. Your training wouldn't allow you.” He looked down at himself. “I suppose I do look otherworldly.”

     “You do,” I admitted with a sigh. “You look strange, without your motley. I would think that would make you look less odd…”

     The Fool laughed, and it sounded almost musical. “Nothing could make me look less odd. You ought to know that.” He scuffed the toes of one foot along the stone of the floor. “Did you have nightmares?”

     I shook my head. "I didn't sleep,” I said, frowning as I noted the change in his demeanour. “Did you?” I could think of no other reason he might ask me that, especially in so plain a tone.

     “I tried,” the Fool replied quietly. After some consideration, he cocked his head to the side and added: “I suppose, then, I am not here for the same reason you are.”

     I narrowed my eyes, wondering what he was playing at. “Then what is your reason?” I asked slowly, approaching him. “Have _you_ had nightmares?” I doubted he would tell me, but he surprised me by nodding.

     “The strangest nightmares,” he admitted. "But I have always had them, they come and go." He sighed and looked to the window. “I do hope I shan't have to perform much tomorrow.” His words seemed strained, as if he was only saying them to keep the conversation alive—or else to distract me from his previous statement.

     “Yes, well things don't often work as we plan," I grumbled bitterly, folding my arms once more and grimacing at the frigid flagstones beneath my feet. My entire life seemed to be a culmination of this.

     “What plans have gone astray in your life lately?” the Fool asked sharply, but his words did not pack the bite they usually did. I felt him look at me, but I did not meet his eyes.

     I shrugged and dragged my foot against the cold floor. I could not bring myself to tell the Fool of my true ailments, both because I had been sworn to secrecy and because he would no doubt make fun of me for fretting over something so trivial. “I know that if I do not sleep, I would be too tired tomorrow but I still cannot.” It sounded weak even to my own ears, but too long of a hesitation would have been even weaker.

     “The best solution, then,” the Fool speculated, apparently taking my would-be plight seriously, “is not to wander about the castle. One's bed is the best place for sleep. What is keeping you from it?” 

     “I haven't any idea,” I said, looking back up. I saw no point in pursuing my transparent lie, so I simply said: “I left my bed in hopes I could tire myself.” 

     “There are many activities known to tire a man, even if he does not leave his bed,” the Fool said with a coquettish giggle. “But…I suppose you are not quite a man yet.” He sighed with stage-wistfulness and paused, staring at me unblinking for several unnerving seconds.

     If he had said something lewd, I was either too tired or too stupid to understand it. “That's not quite the point, Fool,” I replied, electing to ignore it and change the subject instead.  “But that doesn't quite matter. What do you dream of that causes you to be wakeful?” I was also driven by concern, and more than a little curiosity.

     I should have known better than to try to change the subject in the Fool’s company, for he was much more adept at it than I. “You have never visited the gardens at night, have you?” he asked with almost trance-like lightness before snapping out of his daze. “You should. Some of the flowers glow.” It was a surprisingly straightforward remark for him, although I had never seen glowing flowers.

     I shook my head, as much as an answer to his question as an exasperated response to his fanciful conversational patterns. “No, I have not. But I would like to see them, if you would show me.” My tone was polite, but I wondered again what he was planning. Usually, when he directed a conversation somewhere, it was for a reason.

     The Fool smiled at me childishly and gently took my wrist, leading me through the halls. “It's where I was going,” he informed me with renewed cheer. “It's where I often go,” he added before falling silent abruptly. I realized only a moment after that he had shared a personal detail with me, which was something he often tried to avoid.

     “Is that where you disappear off to when you are not with the King?” I asked teasingly, letting the Fool lead me through the corridors though the way was well known to me.

     The Fool nodded seriously. “There, or to your chambers. But you knew that.” He still seemed to glide across the floor rather than walk. “And where do you go, when you are not with Burrich or the King?” he asked me in the same jesting tone, only much more proficient than mine had been.

     It was my turn to answer gravely. “My own chambers or into town,” I explained. “Though I scarcely get a free moment to do so.”

     The Fool actually stopped and turned to face me, his eyes fearful. "Into town? You could get hurt, or killed. The town is no place for one such as yourself." He sounded as if this was the most upsetting plight he had ever faced.

     I was taken aback; I had thought that he knew the answer and was simply playing along. “Why is that? I have friends there.” I frowned and looked at him, trying to place his reaction. I spoke slowly, unsurely: “I'm not that important. I'm a bastard, remember?” Even after the years of enduring it, the words fell from my lips bitterly and my stomach clenched at the thought.

     “Fitz,” the Fool said with urgency, planting his palms on my chest. “You have no idea how important you are. Not yet. You need to be kept safe.” His blue eyes were alight with a fanatic glow as he tried to catch my gaze. I refused to meet it for fear I would never be able to look away. He opened his mouth to speak again, but I looked away suddenly, my attention arrested by the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. I knew we were in the wing reserved for visiting courtiers, and when I saw the source of the sound I had no doubt about why he was there.

     Regal swept down the hall in a fine mood, his colourful robes flowing around him in the cloud of perfume he emitted. I thought him so preoccupied with the events of his evening that he might pass us, but his eyes fixed on us suddenly, and he leaned against the wall after approaching us. “Well, well,” he drawled, “the bastard and the freak.”

     The familiar bile that arose whenever I saw Regal threatened to choke me now, but I clenched my fists and gave a slight bow. "My Prince," I said, overly polite. That was the only way I had found to deal with him without causing a scene.

     The Fool had the opposite idea. Usually, he might have complemented my respectful comment with a passive-aggressive remark of his own, but he only dropped his hands from my chest and gave the Prince a look like a frightened deer before discreetly edging behind me. I found I could not blame him.

     Regal laughed snidely. “Oh, and now that my father is not around to pander to you, have you lost your tongue, fool?” He smiled coldly at me, his dead eyes seeming to bore through me. “You should not be about. Someone might get suspicious of you.” 

     “Suspicious, my Prince?” I imagined his remark had sounded more scathing before he had spoken it. “I do not think there is much a fool and bastard could do that would give reason for suspicion. Sir," I added as an afterthought.

     “Who knows?” the Prince said calmly, examining his fingernails. “Neither of you belong here, one of you born of common blood and the other of a country without even a name; some might say you would even like to see the downfall of the kingdom.”

     The Fool stiffened. "Both of us serve King Shrewd better than you ever will, you pompous horse's ass!" he exclaimed from behind me. The words were of the same credence as his usual taunts, but he sounded more like a scared child than an anything else. I remembered then that despite his often wise words, that was what he was, and I hated Regal all the more for it.

     Regal casually unlatched himself from the wall. He took only the slightest step forward, but his stance was threatening. “Would you care to say that again, fool?”

     I put my arm out to protect the Fool, as if that would do anything to stop Regal. "We wanted no quarrel with you, my Prince,” I said, a defensive edge to my voice. “Don't you think they may grow suspicious to see _you_ out at this hour?”

     “Who is _‘they_?’” Regal mocked. “You assume there is anyone in this palace with more power than me, bastard. No. If anyone happened upon us, you would take the fault, not I. One word from me would put the blame on you for all sorts of…distasteful deeds.”

     “Who _are_ ‘they?’” the Fool muttered, the correction seeming to bring him some measure of satisfaction against Regal despite his fear. He grabbed my outstretched arm and held on with strength that continued to surprise me.

     If I ignored my friend’s comment, I hoped Regal would as well. “Perhaps if the King saw you?” I suggested. “ Or Prince Verity? Unlike princes, it isn't uncommon to see underlings running about at night.”

     Regal ignored the majority of my remark and snorted. “And that is all you shall ever be. Underlings. Vermin. The sight of you disgusts me.” He was much more volatile with his words when no one with any power was around to hear him.

     I knew that the chances of being happened upon by Shrewd or Verity were next to none, as neither of them roamed the keep at night. The Fool knew it too and he mutely pulled my arm, signalling to me to come away quietly. I, unfortunately, felt more strongly the pull of my anger against the Prince. I ignored the Fool's light tug on my arm and glared up at Regal. "I know you think that, sir,” I said, my voice civil to a fault. “I'd be more than happy to stay out of your way, if that is what you wish.”

     For a moment, it looked as if Regal might have just dropped the issue and moved on. But his nostrils flared, and he took the final step forward. "I've had enough of your insolence, bastard!" he snapped, giving me a shove. This close, I could faintly smell alcohol as well as a lady's perfume on him. I stumbled slightly but held my ground, his push having no more force than the affections of an excited hound. Even before his hands had connected, however, the Fool had let go of my arm to step in front of me. “Leave him alone,” he said calmly, though his voice shook.

     Regal had no qualms about violence. I suspected he had only held back with me because someone powerful was bound to notice and rebuke him. The Fool presented no such problem, and Regal backhanded him. I looked up just as he connected and shot him an angry glare. The Fool certainly hadn’t deserved that, and Regal, of course, was wearing several large rings. I caught my friend as he staggered back and Regal smirked, planting his hands on his hips smugly.

     The Prince, however, was the least of my concerns at the moment. I was dimly aware of him striding off and laughing coldly. “Never try to cross me again, bastard, or worse for you,” he taunted, but his words fell on deaf ears as I moved the Fool to arm’s length to inspect his face. “Are you alright?”

     The Fool's hand had flown to his face when Regal connected, and his head was bowed. He turned away from me, but seemed unable to summon words to his lips. I scowled to see one so eloquent stricken to silence and gave Regal’s retreating form one final glare before gently gripping my friend’s shoulders. “Can I see?” I could feel my worry as a tangible presence, for the Fool’s withdrawn state frightened me more than Regal’s threats ever could. “Please show me. I cannot help you if you do not.”

     The Fool blinked slowly and looked up at me. He let his hand drop, revealing an angry red mark and the beginnings of a large bruise, as well as a few layers of missing skin where the rings had struck. Blood dusted these wounds, not flowing but barely welling up to the surface. He bit his lip in an unsuccessful attempt to keep tears from forming in the corners of his eyes.

     I frowned, reaching a hand out to move his hair and further inspect the mark. It looked painful, that much was certain. It looked even worse on the Fool's pale skin, startlingly dark against white. Then a thought struck me. “Has he done this before?” I blurted, even as I knew the answer and felt the wave of anger surge against me once more.

     The Fool nodded, just enough to be visible. His eyes had dropped again as soon as I had touched his hair, and I attributed it to his aversion to contact. He still did not speak to me, and my distress warred with my ire.

     “How often?” I prompted, staring at him and willing him to say something. I was fully prepared to dump manure into Regal's bed as an act of vengeance. The Fool looked ready to cry and the Prince was long overdue for the consequences of his despicable acts.

     The Fool tried to speak, but his voice cracked and he cleared his throat before any words came, although even these were hoarse. “Whenever the face paint comes out to play,” he said with a wistful smile. While I was grateful that he had recovered from his shock enough to speak, I felt my own as I realized just how often that was. The Fool painted his face just as much as he left it unadorned, and I had never thought to question it. I supposed that was the point. It would be much easier to cover up the wounds than to either explain to Shrewd how they had come to pass or make up a plausible lie to cover for Regal. The King had made it clear to me that serving the kingdom meant the princes as well, and I saw no reason why he would not have similarly lectured the Fool. 

     To my surprise, my anger abated. Care for my friend was obviously more important than any revenge fantasies I might have, no matter how satisfying. I sighed and pulled the Fool into a hug. “Why did you not tell me? Or tell the King? I am certain he could put a stop to this.”

     Instead of pulling away from the contact, the Fool just dropped his head onto my shoulder, letting out a small snuffle. I had never seen him so vulnerable. “The King has bigger issues to deal with,” he mumbled, “and telling you seemed pointless. There is nothing you can do without bringing further harm to one or both of us.”

     “It would not have been pointless. At least you would not have suffered alone,” I pulled back to look at him, trying my hardest for consolation: “Regal is hardly worth our thoughts. I'd like to see the garden still, if you would show me.”

     The Fool hastily wiped away the single tear that had tracked its way down his cheek, in such a way that I suspected he would rather not have had me see it. His hand brushed up against the bruise in doing so and he grimaced. "I should still very much like to show you..." he agreed quietly, and turned away to continue the walk down the hall. He was markedly less excited, and did not take my hand this time.

     I kept a close eye on the Fool as we walked. I had thought perhaps that this would make him feel a bit better. “If you do not want to...” I began. “The choice is yours. Though you should come with me to my chambers so I can do what I can to help you.”

     “No!” the Fool protested quickly. “Come, they're usually brightest right after midnight,” he added, as if to convince me to follow him and not my own suggestion.

      I smiled encouragingly and nodded. “I just had to be certain,” I assured him, still following. “I've never thought to visit at night before. How did you learn of it?”

     The Fool smiled, a secret smile that made him look almost like himself. "Ah, that would be telling," he said quietly, slipping out a side door and onto the grounds.

     As much as I complained of his cryptic speech, I sighed in relief. He was feeling better than before, obviously. “You won't even tell me?” I asked, still curious.

     The Fool spun around and walked backwards through the gardens so he could face me as he spoke. “Do you think you warrant some sort of special treatment, Fitz?” he teased, grinning. Nothing usually kept him down for long, and this was no exception, though I could not help but feel a pang of uncertainty that perhaps that was because these incidents happened often.

     “No,” I replied gravely, “I was just curious. Besides, you know almost everything about me and I know next to nothing about you. Will you ever tell me?”

     I can count on my fingers the amount of times an answer I have given has evinced uncertainty from the Fool, and this was one of those times. He recovered quickly, however. “Maybe I will tell you about me when you tell yourself about you,” he said playfully, turning down a side path lined with purple flowers.

     The comment made my head spin. “But you already know everything,” I complained. Aside from Chade, of course, but I couldn't tell anyone of that.

     “I know more than you do,” the Fool confirmed, “which is why I said you ought to tell yourself about you. There are a great many things you believe to be true which are not, as well as a great many things you do not believe to be true which are.” He nodded as if pleased with this evaluation and stopped before a small display of flowers. There were small blue ones in the centre, and the pattern spiralled out to purple, and then red, orange, and yellow in each layer. He sat down cross legged before it and I moved to sit beside him, staring at the flowers for a long while before I spoke.

     “I don't understand…” I mumbled, glancing up at him at last. “I think I would know myself better than you would.”

     The Fool shook his head softly, almost reverently. No clever remark came from him, simply: "I pay attention," spoken in a tone that held layers of secrets beneath it.

     I frowned and looked at him properly. “How? I don't see you often enough for that,” I argued.

     Within an instant, the Fool’s enigmatic tone had disappeared. He giggled. “But I see you. Every day and every night.” He smiled down at the flowers and brushed his hands over the tops: a faint light flared up from the petals in the wake of his hand.

     I folded my arms indignantly. "Are you spying on me?" I accused, glaring at him in slight irritation. It was not a friendly accusation, but it was the only explanation I could think of. 

     He looked as if he had been caught in the act. “You might call it spying…” the Fool admitted warily, “but I think not.” He mumbled this, his eyes now trained solely on the flowers.

     I huffed and turned my attention to the flowers; it was pointless to argue with him. The display before us really was lovely, and it made me aware of how much more beautiful the garden became in the moonlight. “It's nice out here,” I remarked, but those feeble words did not do the sight justice.

     “Do you like it?” the Fool asked hopefully, looking up to me as if he had asked me to judge an act he performed, or indeed his very character.

     “I like it very much,” I confirmed, brushing my hand over the petals of the flowers in front of us and producing the same glow my companion had. “Who tends to these? Surely none of the gardeners are out at night to care for them.”

     The Fool smiled softly. “No one of import, I am certain.” His eyes followed my hand down to the small garden and stayed there. “But the Prophet and the Catalyst shall be forced apart,” I thought I heard him whisper, just above the breath of the wind, “and shall only be joined by dire need...”

     I looked up sharply and frowned. “What does that mean?” I asked. “I don't understand it. Fool, you speak in riddles again.”

     He blinked owlishly at me. “What? I said no one of import tends to the gardens at night.”

     I shook my head and turned to face him. “No,” I pursued, reluctant to let him evade the question. “After that. You said something of a Prophet and a... another being forced away?”

     The Fool shook his own head. “You really are hearing ghosts now,” he chided, and I knew he would speak of it no more. He abruptly changed the subject, using the dreamy voice that made so many people think he was simple. “Did you know some Jamaillian seers are said to be able to read a man's future in the palm of his hand?”

     I sighed, ignoring whatever it was he had said before that. “I did not. Can they? Do you know how to?” I found myself overcome with a sudden curiosity, which I supposed was the point of his tone. I felt as though I must find out, and the Fool was the only one who held the answers.

     “I know the principle,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let me see.” He looked up at me with an inviting grin, willing me to set my own hand in his palm.

     I held out my hand and spread my fingers so the Fool could see my palm properly. “Who taught it to you?” I asked, staring at my hand and trying to figure it out myself. “Could you teach me?”

     The Fool took my hand in his cold one. His touch was strangely delicate, though I had been the subject of his otherworldly strength. “No one,” he said softly. “I watched.” He frowned for a moment as he pondered. “This line is said to represent your life,” he mused, tracing his fingertip lightly over one of the lines in my palm. “Length represents lifespan and depth represents life quality, I believe...” 

     I stared down, trying to read the lines for myself and finding nothing. I have since attempted to research the subject and found nothing on it, so I do not know if the Fool’s divining was accurate at all, nor whether he spoke truly of the practice. “What is to become of me then?” I asked presently and looked back up. “What will happen?”

     The Fool shook his head. “I don't know how to read the signs; I just know what they are.” He traced another line. “The head line: tells of your mind and intelligence.” His mystical tone subsided as he grinned at me. “I could read you without this one.”

     I pulled back and tucked both hands beneath my arms indignantly. “And what do you mean by that?” I asked, making a sour face.

     The Fool giggled. “Peace, Fitz. I was jesting.” He held out his hand again and looked at mine. “Please. There's one more.”

     I reluctantly unfolded his arms and replaced my hand in the Fool's. “Well, what is it then?”

     “This one—” He traced the third line— “is your love line. It tells of matters of the heart.” He absently ran his fingertips along it, and it seemed to me he was actually trying to find something in this final line. “Your heart will belong to two over your life,” the Fool said at last, his eyes fluttering open.

     “How can you tell?” I asked, looking harder at my hand. “It makes no sense. They're just marks to me. Besides, you said you could not read the signs.”

     “You would not understand if I explained it just now,” the Fool said with a wistful smile. “Just know that you have a fool's blessing...” He kissed the palm of my hand and then closed it into a fist, holding that in both of his own hands. So enrapt was I by the reverence with which he performed the action that I did not pull away. “...for whatever that is worth.”

     I smiled faintly, not quite understanding what had just happened, and nodded. “It is worth a great deal to me then, I suppose,” I said, moving my other hand up to pat his. “Not the blessing of a fool but that of a friend.” 

     It was easy to see the blush that spread over the Fool's face, despite the lack of sunlight and the bruise marring it. I knew not why he took such words to heart. “Thank you, Fitz,” he said quite sincerely, and let the words trail off into a comfortable silence. He still held my hand, and he transferred his gaze back to the flowers, looking genuinely content.

     I, however, continued looking at him and frowned. “You're bleeding,” I remarked, breaking the silence. I reached my hand up to the Fool's face and wiped the welling of blood from one of the cuts Regal's rings had made.

     “Not really,” the Fool muttered, though he did not shy away. “I assure you, I have suffered worse.” The blush had subsided as soon as I had spoken, and he now seemed intently focused on the flowers.

     “How bad, then?” I asked, keeping my eyes locked on the Fool. One of my hands was still clasped between his, and the other hovered still near his cheek.

     The Fool removed one of his hands from the cluster and traced a line along the top of my cheekbone. “A deep cut, here. That ring was particularly sharp.” He wiped absently at the scrapes on his face now and winced as he forgot about the bruise again. “I will survive, Fitz,” he reassured me, and rested his hand back on top of mine.

     I absently moved closer and placed both of my hands to the Fool's face, holding him steady in the light so I could properly see. To a casual observer it was invisible, but up close there were faint scars that were made almost nonexistent by his pale skin. “Why do you not avoid him then?”

     The Fool let out a faint indignant puff of air, which brushed my cheek lightly, and flicked his eyes up to meet mine. “Do you not think I do?” The words were meant to be sharp, I knew, but they were inexplicably tinged with softness. “In public, I must pay him as much attention as I do Verity and Shrewd. In private, I run.” He seemed to want to say more, but fell strangely silent.

     Sighing and shaking my head, I suddenly felt a very adult responsibility for my friend. “How does he find you, then?”

     “I don't run fast enough,” he whispered. “Besides, there is only one of me, and he has lackeys.” He shrugged and gave me a small smile. “Worry not, he won't kill me.” He sounded as if he was trying to reassure me.

     “Well that's hardly fair,” I commented absently, turning the Fool's face more towards the moonlight. The blood looked black. “But he doesn't play by what is fair. What if he does kill you?” I dreaded the thought.

     “He won't,” the Fool said with more certainty. “I know my destiny.” He slid his eyes to the side to regard me properly and the look in his eyes softened, becoming something unreadable.

     “Well... If you're certain,” I said reluctantly as I wiped the blood away, minding the bruise. How dark the blood and the mark around it was against his white skin bothered me, but I knew better than to argue with him. “You should sleep.”

     “I—” He had been about to say something, but I had unintentionally cut him off with my remark. He shut his mouth with a grateful expression and nodded, moving my hands from his cheeks. “So should you, but I know you will not if I am here.” He leaned forward as if to whisper in my ear, but kissed my cheek instead. “Thank you, FitzChivalry.” And then he stood and left, still looking like a spirit as he walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to point out that the Fool has no idea how to read palms. The excuse to hold Fitz's hand was enough.


End file.
